


No Fear

by eddiecharlesstewart



Category: The Eagle of the Ninth Series - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Battle Scenes, Gen, Roman Britain, Sieges, Violence, death of all roman characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1254358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eddiecharlesstewart/pseuds/eddiecharlesstewart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus Aquila and his cohort guard a small fort against an overwhelming force of natives in the face of annihilation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Fear

No Fear  
Marcus Aquilia gazed across the fields of oats, withered and stooped it would be a poor harvest. Below the palisade on which he stood lay the waddle and dub settlement of Lugavalium, on the northern wall facing the barbaric one time province of Valentina, now reclaimed by the Pict.  
The settlement consisted of a warlords feast hall, a few cattle byres and clusters of grimy hovels. The population were dirty scrawny people weary after successive poor harvests. The warrior class had grown fat and complacent under Roman rule, some taking to wearing togas of sorts.  
Up in the fort Aquilia completed the night patrols and witnessed the swift changing of the guard, just a few of the responsibilities pilled upon the senior centurion of a 1st legionary cohort. He then retired to his chamber to complete the supply forms, and drifted into a comatose sleep.  
He was awoken by a stocky legionary crashing into his cell and exclaiming “Movement by the northern and southern gates, SIR” before snapping to attention. “Right, sound the alarm, have the men form up in battle gear at the double”.  
Snapped Marcus a little too harshly as he was angered by this awakening from his angelic rest. The legionary sprinted out the door, nailed boots sending sparks from the cold stone floor. Second later the trumpeter sounded the call to arms, Marcus already in tunic, mail shirt and harness donned his thick red woollen cloak and grasped his crimson plumed helm before marching out into the frozen dawn outside. Passing lanterns shone on his gleaming medals as he strode to the tower to assess the situation.  
Just as he reached the comfort of the signal fire all hell broke loose. With a ghoulish cry echoed on all sides, a wave of arrows blotted the murky blue sky. Many whistled past his head, highlighted as he was by the fires glow. Painted tribesmen broke from the gorse and like fiends of Tartarus swarming over the stake filled ditches, hurling themselves up the palisade. Using every fibre of his being Marcus yelled “to the walls”.  
With the instinctive unity long associated with the infamous red crested warriors, the legionaries charged upwards to relieve the outnumbered sentries. Marcus among them hacked and slashed pushed and swore as they reached the walls. Fearlessly Centurion Marcus Aquilia stabbed a huge Celt in the midriff ducking below his long sword for the death blow. He couldn’t remember how many he killed, an old wiry man with but a pitchfork, a warrior in mail wielding a berserker’s axe, but always another enemy stepped into the gap left by his brethren. The air was alive with the sword song, steel on steel wood on wood, the cries of the injured, insults and curses of anguish and hatred.  
It became obvious though that the Celts’ would prevail. Through sheer weight of numbers they pushed the Romans back, until a meagre handful stood, brothers in arms, on the parade ground. The barracks and armouries were now alight, held amid the knot of red crest braves the eagle standard was thrust higher, ever higher revelling in the dancing light of the flames. As though its men wished their silver eagle to take flight, never to witness their fate. The sword song reached a climax as the number of Romans standing diminished until but one fearless warrior, one mighty man carrying aloft an eagle of silver and bronze stood, flashing a crimson cloak he stood, weary and injured. He stood amid a flood of Celtic blades rose and fell upon him in unison.  
As the morning sun rose a feverous chill smothered the smouldering ruins, and a single eagle flew, high above the carnage below.  
A knot of red crests lay where they fell, surrounded by heaps of their foes, at their centre, a final sacrifice, the centurion’s body lay slumped against the standard, struck into the frozen ground. Above his head, the eagle perched, glorious in their defeat.  
Within a week retributions were rained upon the local populace, homes were burned, fields salted, foragers pillaging outlying settlements.  
Months later, the fort has been rebuilt, a new garrison double strength, the towns folk living on their whim. One feature of the past garrison live on undyingly, the graffiti on walls, shrine to their local gods lie neglected, and the faces of the men live on in their children sired in the town below.  
The new garrison are heavy handed in their dealings with the natives, the legionary’s replacements, a superstitious lot refuse to walk the parade ground, for fear of disturbing the bodies of the men buried where they fell. These men are unlike their predecessors’, who gave their lives for honour, a band of brothers, who had no fear.


End file.
